


so the heavens wept

by writesbystarfruit



Series: the tomes of cirellyth [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blood and Violence, F/M, Lee Taeyong Needs a Hug, M/M, Mark Lee & Lee Taeyong Are Siblings, Mentioned Other K-pop Artist(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prince Lee Taeyong, Prince Mark Lee (NCT), Rebel Johnny Suh, Rebellion, Rebels, Revolution, Revolutionaries, Suh Youngho | Johnny is Whipped, Violence, Worldbuilding, this is gonna be a long ass ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23554765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writesbystarfruit/pseuds/writesbystarfruit
Summary: Taeyong hadn’t heeded the rumors at first. They sounded far too outrageous.Now, as he's huddled in an underground cellar and fearing for his life, Taeyong regrets it. He's been on the run for a year now - falling from the worshipped Crown Prince to a royal fugitive whom the rebels are all too eager to kill.Enter Johnny Suh, Leader of the Rebellion and far too attractive for his own good.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung & Lee Taeyong, Lee Taeyong & Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten, Lee Taeyong/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Series: the tomes of cirellyth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695319
Comments: 13
Kudos: 97





	1. falling hearts, paper stars

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! welcome to my fic, "so the heavens wept!" 
> 
> this is a worldbuilding + royalty au. updates will be a bit slow at first, so please be patient with me! :) 
> 
> inspiration for the chapter titles comes partly from panic at the disco's "king of the clouds" song, and also partly from my (very limited) knowledge of celestial objects and rhymes hahaha!
> 
> this is the first time i've ever written an nct fanfic, and also the first time i've attempted worldbuilding before, so constructive criticism and feedback is highly appreciated.
> 
> hope you enjoy!!

Taeyong hadn’t heeded the rumors at first. They sounded far too outrageous.

Then again, that’s how fascists gained power - by spreading false and malicious rumors so outlandish to outsiders that they scoff at the incredulity. They’re lured into a false sense of security… until the plans are actually enacted.

Now, Taeyong regrets it.

He curls into a tight ball, head tucked between his knees and bony arms circling his shins. He chokes on an inhale, but doesn’t dare cough or make any sounds.

He hears the boisterous yelling of protestors outside shouting, “Death to the Lees!” Then, the blood-curdling screams of a woman and the cries of an infant.

Taeyong feels the pressure build behind his eyes. He forces down his tears and holds his breath - any sound now would be certain death.

He hears shattering glass.

Impossibly, Taeyong curls even tighter. He wedges himself into the farthest corner from the cellar trapdoor, obscured by layers of shadows. He longs for his family’s company, but then again, he wouldn’t wish this horror on anyone. God, he hopes to the heavens that Mark escaped. He could die in peace knowing that his youngest brother had made it safely to the boat heading for the Marshes.

He hears the hoots and cries of victory outside.

He assumes that the rebels have discovered the run-down shack and the dying remains of embers in the ash pile.

Taeyong sobs silently. He cries for his family. He cries for his kingdom. He cries for his people, who had to suffer through the slow corruption of the regency. He cries, most of all, for the life he could have led.

He hears a single pair of footsteps coming closer and closer to the trapdoor. He prays that they will not notice the tiny keyhole in the center of the floor.

Moments later, his heart drops into his gut as he sees the door creak open slowly. Flickering orange torchlight illuminates a small area on the ground below.

Taeyong curls tighter into a ball. He feels more tears run down his face and silently accepts his fate - It’s close to the end now.

He doesn’t look up when someone descends down the stairs. He doesn’t look up when that person’s halting footsteps start toward his direction. He only looks up when he hears the gasp.

With a tear-stained face, tattered clothing, and gaunt features, Taeyong knows he probably looks hideous at this point. He revels in the shock of the other man, whose nose and mouth are covered with black cloth. Only his eyes are illuminated. In the flickering orange torchlight, they look like pure black, obsidian pools in which Taeyong will meet his death.

“Kill me,” Taeyong whispers. And then, absurdly, impossibly, Taeyong feels the edges of his mouth curl upward. In a twisted way, he finally feels some semblance of happiness and peace. The suffering he’s had to endure for the past year would finally, finally end.

There’s a pause. Taeyong’s red-rimmed eyes stare defiantly at the man’s black ones. The former reads the surprise, curiosity, and hesitance swimming in the latter’s eyes. But then the other man murmurs, “no.” Taeyong feels his brows furrow in visible confusion.

He asks, “Pardon?”

The man’s eyes seem to soften as he says gently, “No. You’ll come with me.”

Taeyong still doesn’t comprehend the meaning of the statement. Why would a rebel want him alive? And then, he feels his face crumple. He’s heard what happens to captured prisoners in the camps of the rebels. Rape, interrogation, torture, punishments, servitude, starvation. He’d rather die.

He gathers the remaining spit in his mouth and hacks it up at the man’s feet.

However, the man is unmoved. “Come on now,” he says.

“Never.” Taeyong declares. All of a sudden, the pent up hatred Taeyong had accumulated ever since the start of the rebellions manifests. He thinks of Jieun, with twenty knife stabs slashed across her body and glassy eyes staring sightlessly in the distance. He thinks of Doyoung, whose body was left hanging in the public square for a week before someone (mercifully) removed the corpse. He thinks of Irene, whose fingers were cut off and sent to him one by one until finally, the rebels sent her bloody head, features frozen in terror. He thinks of his father, who, although distant and uncaring in his later years, did not deserve his fate. His severed remains were found in a ditch twenty miles from the capital.

In a lightning-quick flash, Taeyong springs to his feet and punches the man in the jaw. Hard.

He hears the man muffle a “fuck!” as he stumbles to one side, reeling from the punch. Taeyong, however, is slightly preoccupied with clambering to the exit. If only he could escape the cellar and the shack… maybe he could slip out of the backyard, unnoticed, and head into the woods for a few days? Somehow, Taeyong just needs to establish contact with the remaining aristocrats and get to the Marshes… maybe if he just -

His leg is tugged out from behind him, and suddenly, Taeyong finds himself sliding backward. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for impact on the hard-packed floor.

But it never comes. Instead, he lands in the arms of the stranger.

“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll use force,” the man warns, his voice steely and commanding.

Taeyong laughs hysterically. Caged in his captor’s arms, he sees no route of escape anymore, no hope for reuniting with Mark. The only other path is death.

“Kill me then, if you’re so eager.”

He doesn’t feel the piercing pain in his neck. He only feels his world fading around him, the last dregs of euphoric adrenaline tiding him over to unconsciousness.

* * *

Taeyong slowly comes to. He blinks away the last of his sleepiness and looks around in the sparse bedroom. It’s furnished with rustic furniture made of roughly hewn wood. In one corner is a low table with two simple wooden stools on opposite sides. On the other side of the wall, there’s a small window letting in warm sunlight.

The bed he’s lying on is slightly lumpy - it’s far worse quality from the mattresses made of the softest down in the Lees’ palace, but it’s definitely miles of improvement from sleeping in caves with rocks as pillows (as Taeyong found himself doing more often than not in the past year). The blanket he’s covered with, although rather thin and scratchy, does a decent job of keeping him warm.

And then Taeyong wonders, “Where in the world am I?”

The last he recalls is telling the man to kill him. Had he followed through on Taeyong’s words? Was this the afterlife?

For a second, Taeyong’s heart soared. Would he get to see his parents again? And Doyoung, Jieun, and Irene? Would he be able to finally live in peace after the torturous year of constant fear, hiding, and hatred?

And then the door creaks open, and another man walks in. Taeyong feels his dreams, albeit slightly far-fetched, shatter. He casts his eyes down again and tries to smother his disappointment.

If this isn’t the afterlife, then how is he still alive? Taeyong feels a bone-deep chill run through him - What were the rebels planning to do?

“I see you’re awake,” the stranger remarks cheerfully, interrupting Taeyong from his musings. At Taeyong’s silence, he continues, “Are you hungry? Would you like some food and water?”

Taeyong looks up and meets the man’s eyes. In the sunlight, they look warm and inviting, but Taeyong knows not to be fooled by the rebels’ appearances at this point. He knows they’re tricking him, luring him into a false sense of security before killing him like they did to his family and friends.

“What do you want from me?” he asks in a blank tone.

The man replies, “I want to know whether you want breakfast or not. We have porridge, and it’s quite delicious, if I do say so myself.”

“What do you all - the rebels - want from me?” Taeyong asks again.

The man huffs out a breath of laughter. “We can talk about it with the others after you eat. How about that?”

“Where am I?” Taeyong asks relentlessly, unmoved from the attempted diversion.

“You’re in the attic of a cabin near the Woodlands. Now, breakfast or no?”

Taeyong continues, “What’s your name?”

But the man ignores the question, instead repeating, “Breakfast. Yes or no?”

Taeyong stares back evenly. He wasn’t raised in the palace for nothing; he knew how to deal with people like that man the same way he knew how to deal with stubborn, snotty advisors who thought their opinions were the only valid ones. “What’s your name?”

He throws his head back and lets out a giggle. “You really are stubborn. Alright, I’ll go bring you breakfast. I cooked too much anyway. By the way, the name’s Ten.”

He leaves in a graceful breeze, shutting the door behind him gently.

Taeyong inhales sharply. “God,” he mutters. He rests his head, spinning with a deluge of new information, as he tries to piece together the puzzle. The Woodlands… that would put him at a minimum of five days by horseback from the tiny village, Glynndale, that he last hid in. Glynndale was about ten or eleven days of riding due north of the capital, which put him an additional twenty days at the minimum from the rendezvous point at the Marshes.

God, Taeyong missed the palace. Not for its lavish opulence and extravagant decor, but for the beautiful memories held there. His father, taking a break from stuffy conferences and meetings with advisors in the court to bounce a three-year-old Taeyong on his lap. His mother, raven-black hair piled into an elegant bun, teaching him how to play the piano with his chubby four-year-old fingers. Doyoung and him sneaking into the kitchen to greedily stuff sweets into their mouths at age seven. (Their sticky fingers would leave traces all over the table that told the cooks the next day who the culprits of the missing food were). Sparring with an energetic, albeit clumsy, Mark at age ten. Heading into town and watching Irene sketch the townspeople at their Sunday markets. Horseback riding with Jieun to the peaceful creek near the woods, where they would just sit and listen to the comforting sounds of nature. Practicing archery with Head Knight Heechul… Taeyong misses them all so much.

Before he realizes it, a tear falls onto the blanket. He sniffles in a vain attempt to staunch the flow, but two more fall. Soon, the tears become a steady stream, and Taeyong futilely buries his head into his hands.

Ten chooses that moment to enter. Taeyong mentally curses the awful timing, but physically, he’s too busy trying not to dissolve into a mess of tears and snot.

“Oh, Taeyong-sshi,” Ten murmurs softly. He sets down a tray and pads over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay. We can help you,” Ten soothes.

But Taeyong’s despair goes far beyond simple platitudes and empty condolences. They’re all a farce - the words, the actions, the people, Taeyong viciously reminds himself.

“It won’t be fine because you rebels killed them all!” Taeyong spits. He feels deranged at this point, breathing erratic and sentences punctuated by sobs. “I’ll never see any of them again, and you’re the reason why!"

Ten’s face shutters. His face closes off into a polite but distant expression. “I’m - we are all - sincerely sorry for your losses, but -”

“You aren’t.” Taeyong glares at him. His body quivers with sobs. “None of you or your friends are. You’re all overjoyed that they’re dead, and you want me dead too!” His voice rises gradually until he’s shrieking, unhinged like a four-year-old throwing a temper tantrum.

A firm rap on the door disturbs the heated conversation. “Everything alright up here?” A deep - familiar - voice asks from the other side of the door.

It was the man from the cellar.

Ten sighs. “Let’s start the meeting up here. And now, please.”

Over the course of a few minutes, six men steadily trickle in, settling on the carpeted floor around the room and conversing softly with one another. As if by some unspoken rule, they leave both stools empty.

Taeyong observes each member quietly, as he was trained to do while on the run in the past year. For one, they are all extremely handsome. And for another, they all glance fleetingly in his direction. They do it subtly, one at a time, and only for a fraction of a second, but Taeyong knows what it feels like to be under scrutiny. He assumes that they don’t know his history of being, well, the heir to the throne. At this point, it’s a good thing - probably the only fact preventing the others from killing him.

The gentle hubbub dies away as two men step into the room.

One is objectively attractive, with a square jaw and solemn eyes. His honey brown hair sits loosely in waves, strands hanging down to frame his face softly. He would’ve been praised to the heavens in the palace court; rich noble women (and even some of the male lords) would have paid fortunes for his presence. He offers a brief glance and nod to the rest of the room before settling comfortably on one of the stools.

So this man outranks the rest of them.

Then Taeyong's eyes shift to the other man - the one from the cellar. His presence practically commands authority and attention. Under proper lighting, the man seems to tower above the others. His face, while stern, radiates calm and composure. When he catches Taeyong’s stare, he raises the edges of his lips in a slight smile as a greeting.

“Good morning, all.” The man says. The rest nod back, paying rapt attention to his words.

“As you all have probably noticed by now, we have a new guest that will stay with us for the time being. His name is Taeyong.” Here, he gestures at Taeyong, and abruptly, twelve heads swivel to gaze at him. Taeyong gulps self-consciously at the nine pairs of eyes trained on him. He scans the crowd and is surprised to find no shock at the revelation of his identity.

So they all know already. Taeyong resigns himself once more to imminent death at the hands of the rebels. But these are not mere rebels from a small town or village; these are professionally trained men ready to kill or murder in the blink of an eye. They all hold themselves with poise and grace - similar to what he’d noticed when watching Ten. All their motions seem carefully calculated, the most efficient way to complete their task. Some of them are almost completely still as they sit on the floor. There was no way he could escape this house, not with nine highly-trained assassins watching his every move like a cat watches a canary.

“Now, I’m sure Taeyong has many questions for us as well.” The man from the cellar, who Taeyong assumes is the leader, grabs the other stool and sets it down gently near the edge of the bed. With the bright sunlight illuminating his face, Taeyong realizes his eyes are a warm caramel brown, a stark contrast from the emotionless black Taeyong had first believed.

Taeyong feels even more flustered at his intense gaze. Nevertheless, he bravely forges ahead. “Who are you all?” he asks defiantly.

Johnny quirks an eyebrow at him. “I’m sure you have already surmised who we work for, based on your conversation with Ten.”

At this, Taeyong’s face flushes beet red, cheeks burning. He’s sure everyone notices it judging from the minuscule smirks some of the men sport.

“So, you’re the rebels,” Taeyong confirms. “Are you the Reds or the Black Skulls?”

Regardless of the answer, he knows he would die at their hands eventually. The Reds, who advocate for the brutal military general Jackson Wang on the throne, broadly proclaim that they would start reform by beheading the Lees for all to see. The Black Skulls, who believe that anarchy is the permanent (and best) state of the nation, also announced their plan to start by killing the Lees.

“We’re a sect of the Reds,” the leader answers. Taeyong doesn’t know if the slight hesitation before his sentence was just a figment of his imagination or not.

Taeyong sighs. He supposes the elephant in the room must be discussed at some point. He draws himself up to the royal poise that was ingrained into him from age three, and imagines he’s in front of a courtroom filled with pretentious old nobles. He looks each of them directly in the eye as he says, “I ask for mercy from you that my death will be quick and painless.”

There’s a brief pause of stunned silence before the room erupts into noise. Some scoff, others protest, and Taeyong… well, Taeyong is extremely confused. What did he say wrong? He feels indignation rise in him. Would they not even give him a chance to ask for a merciful death?

“Quiet!” the leader’s voice booms over the noise. The others settle into silence so abruptly that the sudden change in noise is quite disconcerting to Taeyong.

Then, he turns gentle eyes onto Taeyong and says softly, “Taeyong-sshi, we aren’t going to kill you.”

“I… beg your pardon?” Taeyong feels a sense of deja vu - he’s pretty sure a similar conversation happened between them in the cellar.

Evidently, the other man realizes as well. He huffs a laugh and says, “I thought we made it rather clear by keeping you alive in this house that killing you was never our intention.”

Taeyong is rather out of his depth at this point. He splutters in a rather undignified manner, “Wait, wait, wait. But you ARE rebels, correct?”

The leader replies, “Yes, but -” before the attractive man on the other stool interrupts. “What our leader is trying to say is that we are providing you shelter and food until the revolution ends. You need not worry about your safety here.”

Taeyong is stunned speechless. He glances around at the others in the room, but they all seem perfectly serious. Then again, they could be luring him into a false sense of security before dealing the killing blow. Nevertheless, curiosity wins out, and Taeyong bites. “So, let’s say I believe you. Why would you help me?”

“Simple. None of the Lees deserve to die,” the leader replies.

Taeyong feels rage rising in him once again, filling up his lungs and heart with fury. Before he realizes it, his mouth is running. “If they didn’t deserve to die, then why are most of my family dead? Why didn’t you tell your allies to stop? Why are you still rounding up innocent aristocrats and putting them in brutal labor camps and torturing them?”

One of the men sitting on the ground perks up indignantly. “Innocent? They’re far from innocent. They stood by, they turned a blind eye, as millions of us died from famine and disease. How can you even say -”

He’s cut off by a, "Yuta," from the leader. Despite the mild tone, the first rebel's (Yuta) mouth snaps shut with an audible click. Taeyong can almost feel the phantom undercurrent of a steely warning under the leader's deceptively calm voice.

“Taeyong-sshi, you have to understand that we’re trying our hardest to save them. It’s rather complicated at this point,” the latter answers.

Taeyong is extremely unsatisfied with the answer, but he reigns in his simmering anger and asks a more pressing question. “What will you do after the revolution is over? Kill me?”

A few members on the floor groan in exasperation. One of the mutters quietly to another, "He wasn't kidding about the boy being 'stubborn.'"

The leader chuckles under his breath before saying, “Taeyong-sshi. We will not kill you. Not now, not ever. After the revolution, we will provide you a place to stay with your brother as a civilian in a smaller village. We will ensure your safety.”

Taeyong almost feels as if he’s in a dream. It seems too good to be true. He clutches on to the last dregs of his evaporating logic, narrows his eyes, and asks, “What do I have to do in return?”

The leader shrugs and rattles off easily, “Some housework and other chores, like cooking or cleaning, but that’s about it.” Then, his voice hardens, and the temperature in the room instantly feels as if it dropped from warm spring sunshine to frigid winter. “However, you must promise absolute secrecy. You cannot tell anyone about us, not even other rebels. Remember, if we are compromised, your safety is as well.”

Taeyong almost shivers subconsciously, but his royal training saves him at the last second from displaying an obvious sign of weakness. He can only nod in the face of the intense gaze.

“So I can leave whenever I want to?” Taeyong queries.

“Of course!” the leader assures hurriedly. “You are not being held captive here. If you should want to leave, we will not stop you. However, we would not advise it, as I’m sure you know that there are others who want your head.”

Regardless of what they claim, these rebels surely had one, if not multiple, ulterior motives behind their actions. But after a year, Taeyong is tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of analyzing and second-guessing every move. Tired of foraging for meager amounts of food and huddling under a thin coat as a flimsy shield against the pervasive cold. He accepts the generous (honestly far, far more than what he deserved) action at face value.

“I can’t thank you all enough for your kindness,” Taeyong says softly. “From the bottom of my heart, I give my thanks.” Then, he climbs off the bed, lowers himself to the floor on his knees, and touches his forehead to the floor in a kowtow.

He hears the room explode into murmurs once again. Shortly after, hurried footsteps approach him. A second later, warm hands grip his shoulder and bring him to a standing position.

Taeyong comes face to face with the leader. At such close proximity, Taeyong can see the honey-golden flecks in his caramel eyes even clearer.

There is a pregnant pause wherein the two stay frozen, staring at one another, before Taeyong breathes out, “Thank you for saving my life.” With that, the strange moment is broken.

“I - of course,” the leader assures him after a hesitant pause. It’s probably the closest Taeyong has ever seen to him losing his calm composure.

With a tilt of the leader’s head, the other members rapidly file out of the room in the same manner they entered. After a few seconds, only the leader and Ten remain with Taeyong.

The former takes a few halting steps back, gaze never leaving Taeyong. The latter feels as if his heart is rabbiting out of his chest under the intense stare. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me,” he says. As he approaches the doorway, he pivots and adds, “By the way, I’m Johnny.” Then, with another lightning quick smirk, he vanishes down the stairway.

Taeyong is left staring at the closed door. What just happened between him and Johnny?

He half-collapses back onto the bed, attempting to remain at least somewhat poised in front of Ten. (He fails spectacularly - he sits back onto the mattress with an ungraceful “thump,” and Ten just barely manages to muffle amused laughter.) Taeyong’s head is filled with snapshots and tidbits of his overwhelming new situation. How in the world was he going to make sense of it, he didn’t know.

Ten interrupts with a long whistle. “Wow, Johnny gave out his name fast.” At Taeyong’s confused expression, Ten explains, “He normally takes ages to trust someone enough for that.” Before Taeyong can ponder the surprising revelation, Ten continues, “Anyway, do you want some breakfast? It might be cold by now, but it’s still edible and most likely delicious! That’s because I made it, and I’m a great cook.”

“Sure,” Taeyong concedes. He can feel a small smile creeping onto his face from Ten’s infectious happiness.

If this was a temporary reprieve from the gruesome revolution raging outside, Taeyong intended to stay as long as possible.


	2. stars like glitter, i'm a sinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the history of the Kingdom of Cirellyth and the the Royal Family, the Lees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo!! this is probably gonna be my last update for a little while because i'm still not finished with chapter 3 yet and online school is absolutely KILLING me with so much work ;-; 
> 
> but thank you so much for everyone who read the last chapter, left kudos, or left a comment!! <333 it really motivated me to finish and publish chapter 2 :))
> 
> before we start the chapter, here's a short little factsheet:
> 
> The Kingdom of Cirellyth  
> \- the nation that the Lees (Taeyong's family) rule over  
> \- the subjects of Cirellyth are called Cirellians  
> \- capital: Doriath
> 
> The Kingdom of Anduin  
> \- a nation north of Cirellyth  
> \- the subjects of Anduin are called Anduites  
> \- mostly woodlands
> 
> The Kingdom of Strathclyde  
> \- a nation to the northwest of Cirellyth
> 
> The Kingdom of Etalyth  
> \- a nation further north of the Kingdom of Strathclyde
> 
> okay, now that that's done, hope y'all enjoyyyy!!!

It wasn’t always like this.

When Taeyong’s great grandfather had ruled, the Kingdom of Cirellyth was at its peak - treasuries filled to the brim with gold, plentiful crop harvests, flourishing with trade. He was a fair ruler, always listening to the qualms of the people and enacting laws based on that. Most everyone loved him; the commoners, the peasants, and the nobles alike. Each class benefited from his democratic regulations, and each class was able to prosper.

What few can remember his rule, which was christened The Golden Age, are now extremely old, each with great-grandchildren of their own. Nevertheless, Taeyong has conversed with several before, and they regaled him with grandiose tales of peace, harmony, and festivity. They would wistfully recount the annual feasts and balls that the king held in the palace.

The Golden Age ended abruptly in the span of a second, Taeyong’s great-grandfather received a bullet to the brain while he was out in town. He died instantly, slumping over in the main square and causing mass hysteria from passersby. To this day, no one knows the identity of the murder. Rumors spread (as they always do, like wildfire over crisp grass on a hot summer day) that a religious fanatic had opposed his reforms and hatched the deathly plot.

What followed was known as the Dark Age. Swiftly, the just, reform-minded regime was replaced by Taeyong’s power-hungry grandfather, Lee Sooman. He ascended to the throne at a mere nineteen, but he was ruthless in his policies.

For one, he taxed the peasants heavily to support his extravagant lifestyle. The nobles were exempt from any taxation, and balls were held in the palace nearly every few months. Naturally, the people began to whisper. They scoffed - how was it fair that the rich could waste their lives partying away while the poor had to labor and toil? It wasn’t uncommon to see entire families starving on the streets, clothing in dirty tatters and bony hands held up for food. The taxes were simply too high to pay, especially during years of drought that only seemed more frequent under King Sooman. Many couldn’t even afford basic necessities like bread and clean water, much less clothing or shelter. 

For another, King Sooman was brash and hot headed. Much to the horror of his advisors, he possessed the unique ability to destroy alliances with just one sentence. As a result, tensions between neighboring kingdoms skyrocketed, and trade, the very backbone of economic prosperity in Cirellyth, suffered. A careless comment from Lee Sooman to a visiting ambassador from the Kingdom of Anduin was all it took for war to be ignited. 

And when it broke out, the people were the ones to bear the burden.

Informally, the people called it the Grim War because of the sheer number of deaths: ninety thousand Cirellian soldiers lost in combat, and another three hundred thousand civilians from famine and sickness.

The war’s official name, though, was the War of the Burning Sun because of the Anduites’ scorched-earth policy. They would burn their homes and crops as they retreated, forcing the Cirellian army to scavenge for remains in the charred ruins. In one year, almost half of Anduin’s beautiful scenery - the forests that they took so much pride in, redwoods towering to scrape the sky with their branches - turned into a barren wasteland of black ash. But the strategy worked. In that same year, the advancing Cirellian army lost more than twenty-thousand soldiers to starvation. 

They were forced into a retreat, and that was when the atrocities began.

The advancing Anduites, filled with blood-thirst and revenge, plundered peaceful towns on the periphery of the two kingdoms’ border. They would murder the innocent civilians, rape their families, and then burn entire villages into nothing. At first, King Sooman paid them no mind, too obsessed with trivial court affairs in the palace. The advisors urged him to send more reinforcements, more soldiers, more supplies, anything to halt the rapidly approaching Anduite army. 

But he wouldn’t listen. And that was his downfall.

A mere ten days later, the Anduites surrounded the capital city, Doriath. They formed a thick ring a scant mile outside city walls, settling down with canvas tents. Every citizen soon realized what was happening: a siege.

The army launched heavy cannonballs filled with explosives at the city. At first, the king scoffed, sure that the three-foot-thick walls would hold. Alas, not even the strongest of walls can withstand constant bombardment. By the time he gave the order for the war-weary, tired Cirellians to launch a counterattack, the walls seemed as if they would fall with a mere whisper of wind.

The poor were already half-starved to death under King Sooman’s heavy hand. By the twentieth day of the siege, if they did not die of starvation, they died of the toxic fumes in the air that hung over Doriath like the miasma of a plague. And indeed, not a week later, tens of thousands more succumbed to a deadly sickness.

By the thirtieth day of the siege, Lee Sooman surrendered.

The victorious Anduites, headed by King Namjoon, demanded Sooman’s head on a stick, three of the most profitable Cirellian trading ports, and nearly half of Cirellyth’s woodlands. The defeated Cirellians could do nothing but acquiesce. They were humiliated, war-weary, mired in poverty, and almost one fifth of the population was dead.

So started the reign of Taeyong’s father, King Donghae.

Some say that Donghae was set up for failure, what with the smarting wound of the war still so fresh in people’s minds. However, it didn’t help that Lee Donghae’s policies seemed almost the same as his father’s - heavy taxes on the poor, apathy for his subjects, exemption for the rich, and extravagance in the palace. 

Perhaps his only redeeming quality was his silver tongue. He could expertly weave himself out of situations in court, assuaging allies, playing on their fears, and uniting them toward a common enemy. It was said that he once negotiated a peace treaty between the warring nations of Strathclyde and Etalyth in a mere hour.

However, tales of politics and court affairs could not fill the stomachs of the poor. And so one morning, a starving band of one hundred peasants marched toward the palace, armed with garden hoes and pitchforks. As they marched along, chanting for justice, the bolder ones of the lower classes joined in, each grabbing whatever weapon was available at hand. The procession grew bigger and bigger, until it became a throng of thousands crying for justice and, most importantly, for food. They marched to the gilded golden gates of the palace, thrusting their makeshift weapons in the air.

In the palace, Donghae is awakened by trembling advisors. They describe the situation to him, and he makes a decision minutes later.

The wrong decision.

The National Army’s soldiers opened fire on the crowd. Chants rose into hysterical screams and cries of vengeance. The throng ranged at the gates, invigorated more than ever. The bloody protests raged on until nightfall. The next morning, hundreds lay dead in front of the palace, their blood spilling over the ground like glittering trails of tears. It was called the Palace Massacre.

Word spreads, as it always does, like wildfire among the common folk. Across the kingdom, a wave of resentment and rebellion surged that year. Farmers united against their landlords. Normally obedient peasants refused to work. Merchants refused to pay fees to tax collectors. Thousands more protestors gathered in various cities across the land, chanting for less taxation.

Perhaps the only thing stopping the people from full on rebellion was the king’s young family.

His wife, Queen Taeyeon, was as ethereal as she was caring. Her father was Lord of the House of Kim in Strathclyde, and she, being a foreigner, was looked down upon at first. But she soon proved her worth. She was drastically different from the other nobility of Cirellyth. Rather than blank apathy or poorly concealed disgust, she treated the poor with kindness and respect.

She often attended mass with the commoners and visited donation shelters when possible. It was not uncommon to see her walking the narrow, crowded streets, dressed in simple garb like a commoner. She would visit the poorer areas pushed to the periphery of Doriath, bringing happiness, food, and medical aid when necessary. Queen Taeyeon would often take her young son, Taeyong, along with her. He was a mere toddler, yet his beautiful grin and adorable looks provided genuine comfort to the less fortunate citizens.

She saw, firsthand, the suffering of the people. They, in return, believed she was their savior. 

Until Queen Taeyeon fell terribly ill.

Her health had been in sharp decline since the birth of her youngest, Minhyung. She would often be bedridden for weeks in the harsh winters, delirious with raging fevers. After arduous nights and days filled with pain and tens of doctor-prescribed medicines, she would recover. But she would always be weaker than before, whether it was a cough that never fully subsided or more fatigue.

This winter was the worst. It was sudden - Queen Taeyeon collapsed in a dead faint as she toured the Royal Gardens with her eldest daughter. She was rushed to the palace’s infirmary, but her condition only worsened. The best doctors from across the country flocked to Doriath, mouths running with “novel cures” and “unprecedented methods that guarantee success.” But none of them could even succeed in diagnosing the malady, much less curing it.

And so, Taeyong watched his mother die before his eyes. Her vibrant raven locks withered into lackluster brittle wisps. Her delicate features, usually thin and scultped, turned gaunt. Her face was shadowed with exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes like smudges of charcoal. Her lungs wheezed painfully for air as they struggled against the fluid building inside. She became visibly weaker by the day.

When Taeyong was fourteen, his mother gasped her last, rattling breath. Taeyong’s furious sobs raged for days after her death - fury at God for taking her away so soon, fury at the doctors for not providing a cure, fury at his father for not staying with her until her last moments. Soon, his anger abated into cold apathy and despair. He would often spend long hours sitting in the plush chair of his late mother’s room, staring into the distance at nothing in particular. His sister's half-hearted attempts to cheer him up (for she, too, was suffering from grief) had no effect.

During the weeks after her death, the palace was silent, muted, somber. It seemed as if festivity and happiness had departed from Doriath in tandem with Queen Taeyeon. The entire royal family, along with their servants, wore the black mourning garb for two months. Even the poorest subjects throughout the kingdom wore some form of black clothing during the mourning period. 

Soon, the citizens’ grief turned into anger. Their last saving hope had perished, along with their dreams for freedom and justice. Uneasiness stirred across the nation; whispered conversations in dark alleyways, quiet instructions in the privacy of homes, furtive hoarding of makeshift weapons in backrooms of pubs and businesses.

It didn’t help that a massive tax on staple foods - namely, bread, wheat, and potato - was levied on the people just weeks later.

Rioting once again broke out. Citizens demonstrated their disapproval, once again congregating in mass protests and burning any official Royal notices of the food tax.

Lee Donghae was a more perceptive king than his father, Sooman. He knew something had to be done. And so he sent out his children. 

The advisors worried, claiming he was sacrificing them to the wolves. Donghae, usually so perceptive with language, offered no words and shook his head before retreating to his private chambers.

Miraculously, it worked. The populace was placated.

The eldest daughter, Jieun, was breathtaking. She would dote on her younger siblings, caring for them in a motherly fashion. She would offer kind smiles and gentle words to the poor, so reminiscent of the late queen. Her captivating sweetness quickly earned her the nickname of the Nation’s Sweetheart.

Then came Taeyong, heir to the throne. People whispered that he was the Ice Prince, regal, authoritative, and aloof in his every move. The main contributing factor was probably his shock of white hair - after his mother’s passing, the palace staff murmured to attentive crowds, his hair turned white overnight from grief. They remembered him from his youth, a bright-eyed toddler just learning to walk and speak. But after his mother’s passing, he became withdrawn, rarely ever speaking or even smiling. Nevertheless, he accompanied his siblings on their excursions outside of the palace, often offering food and medical supplies as well with an outstretched hand and quirk of the lips. 

And young Minhyung, affectionately dubbed Mark by the populace, endeared himself to all. He was nothing like his father - kindhearted, earnest, and willing to help the poor whenever possible. It was not uncommon to see a young boy of seven generously donating gold coins to beggars on the streets of Doriath, hand in hand with his sister and brother.

So the three royal children were able to pacify the city. 

But the minds of the masses were fickle. Too soon, revolution crept in from the edges of the kingdom, first sweeping through the woodlands, then gathering momentum as it rushed through the farmlands. Peasants boycotted their plantations and took on pitchforks, marching to the city in tandem with their brother lumberjacks carrying heavy axes. The laborers-turned-rebels soon swept into Doriath, seemingly a tsunami of glinting weapons and human limbs, crying for the deaths of the royals. It was not long before the lower classes of the capital city joined forces with them, convinced by their dreams of justice and democracy. Too soon, they forgot the efforts of the innocent royal children.

* * *

Taeyong is harshly shaken awake by petite, slender hands. However, they grip his shoulders with a much greater force than expected. He blinks once, twice, seeing nothing but inky darkness in front of him.

“Yong, get up. We need to go. Now,” Jieun’s whispered voice, laden with stricken panic, snaps him awake instantly.

“What’s happening?” he murmurs back.

“Grab your pack and leave from the corridor behind the kitchens,” Jieun whispers. “I’ll go get Mark. Meet me outside in the private gardens.”

And then she’s gone, sweeping out of the room with the faintest swish of a nightgown on plush carpet. His question goes unanswered, but its heavy implications stay hanging in the air. Taeyong knows without Jieun’s confirmation that the rebellion had begun.

They all knew this would happen some day - the advisors, their father, even young Minhyung. Jieun, ever so perceptive and calculating, knew of the uneasy murmuring and whispered rumors about the royal family. She told them to pack a bag of “essentials, and only essentials. That means no books, Mark, and no parchment for you, Taeyong.” It seems that today was the dreaded day.

Taeyong’s eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, and he springs into action. He grabs his knapsack, a small canvas bag stuffed with nondescript peasant clothing, gold coins, and a sheathed knife. (“Gold coins only,” Jieun warns them with a piercing gaze. “Jewels will raise too many unwanted questions.”) He bends down to pull on his shoes. But just as he’s knotting the laces, something under his bed catches his eye.

A small mahogany box. Ever so gently, he lifts the lid up. His heart is pounding ferociously in his ears; any second now, and his chance to escape would disappear. Nevertheless, he stares down at the contents inside for a few seconds: a yellowed letter, an elegant black quill, and an exquisite silver necklace braided with glittering diamonds. Jiuen’s instructions ring loudly in his ears, but after a moment of hesitation, he grabs the necklace and the letter. He stifles the warning voice in his head muttering how “this is the worst time to cling to sentiment” before padding silently down the halls, knapsack in hand and ears perked for any noises.

Once he reaches the first floor, Taeyong can hear the faint yelling of the protestors much clearer. It sounds similar as it always had in the past two or three riots - a unified mass of chanting voices, mostly male and deep but intermingled with higher pitched females as well. But this time, the crowd sounds significantly larger. Involuntarily, Taeyong shivers.

He quietly opens the grand doors into the kitchen and scurries past the stove, feeling somewhat like a cornered mouse. He hates that the palace, his home, feels like a restricting viper around him, growing tighter and tighter by the second as the time for him to escape slips past, like sand rushing through an hourglass. At the last second, he doubles back, grabbing a few loaves of stale bread that he haphazardly shoves into the bag as well.

Taeyong eases open the trapdoor, artfully hidden behind the inner recesses of the pantry. He’s blasted in the face with the dank odor of wet dirt. That’s right, he remembers, it rained last night. Although the unforeseen weather would make their journey unpleasant, Taeyong knew escape was definitely still possible.

He slips cautiously past the trapdoor’s frame and into the earthy corridor. He’s careful not to leave any indication of his presence, making sure none of his clothing snags. Taeyong knows the wet dirt will ensure preservation of his footprints, but not much can be done at this point.

Unless…

He turns 180 degrees, back facing the exit, and starts walking backwards. His footsteps now go in the opposite direction, as if he was walking into the palace instead of out of it. Let them puzzle over this, he thinks vindictively. And then he winces, mentally berating himself. It’s not the citizens’ fault that they have nothing to eat and no shelter to stay in. It’s the taxes levied by his father.

After a harrowing few minutes with no company but his own roaring heartbeat, Taeyong finally steps into the cool spring air. March’s nights, although not quite warm, felt pleasantly refreshing on his sweaty skin after the confines of the earthy corridor he had just passed through. He takes a quick survey of his surroundings - the private gardens are illuminated with nothing but the faint light of a crescent moon. There’s no wind either; leaves on the trees hang motionless, oppressed, as if holding their breath for an explosive climax.

Another few minutes, and Jieun bursts out with a sleepy Mark in tow. Taeyong immediately notices that her hair is loose and covered with a simple handkerchief rather than being plaited into an elegant bun. He silently nods at the foresight of his sister to wear her hair like the thousands of other peasant women in the city. “Where’s Father?” Taeyong mouths at Jieun, frowning. Jieun shakes her head, motioning for them to walk along the sandy path that leads out of the gardens. Taeyong obliges.

They snake through the winding path with surprising ease; there are no guards stationed (strange, considering his father’s orders for heightened security in the past weeks), so the three children are able to walk freely to the gates and slip silently into the surrounding streets. 

They make their way into a dank alley. Taeyong sees a few rats scurrying around heaps of slops leftover from restaurants, their eyes luminous and red. He shudders involuntarily but pays them no mind. He supposes that he’d have to adjust to it quickly for his foreseeable future.

“Where’s Father?” Taeyong murmurs to Jieun again. The ambient noise is now loud enough that whispers are unnecessary. In fact, the faint noises of the protest carry clearly across the streets to where they’re standing now.

“Couldn’t find him,” Jieun says tersely. Taeyong knows her tone is only clipped like that when she doesn’t want to elaborate, but he presses on.

“What do you mean? Was he not in his rooms?”

“I checked. The courtroom was dark, too, and he wasn’t in Mother’s room either,” she quips.

Taeyong is at a loss. “Do we wait?”

“No, we leave. Now. The carriage taking us south is scheduled to leave before the hour,” Jieun commands.

Taeyong is uneasy. He knows Jieun dislikes their father, not just for his unfair policies, but also for his bias in the family. He wouldn’t spare much attention for her, instead devoting time to Taeyong. But more often than not, he would retire to their late mother’s chambers, spending several hours brooding. Taeyong didn’t mind - other than the fact that Father used the sofa that Taeyong normally sat in when staying in the room, their schedules didn’t conflict. Often, when Taeyong exited, his father would nod a greeting to him as he entered. The few times that they did coincide while staying in the room, the hours were spent in a companionable quiet, with only a crackling fire filling the silence.

However, Jieun’s thoughts were another matter. She resented Father’s dismissive attitude toward her and Mark. She especially disliked his notable absence from Mark’s life - Mark, who was a mere six years old at their mother’s passing; Mark, who needed a parental figure in his life to dull the aching gap that the queen left; Mark, who was young and impressionable and sweet and deserved everything in the world.

Taeyong could understand. He knew that King Donghae’s actions were regarded as cold to the rest of the court and the city; he saw it in the pitying gazes of the old council members and the outright curiosity in townspeople’s faces. But at the end of the day, he was their father. Taeyong thinks back to his father bouncing a younger Taeyong gently on his lap. He recalls the large, warm hands, the rumbling baritone of his laughter. He created them, he raised them, he played with them, and he taught them. 

Surely... that must account for something.

“We should wait.” The words slip out of his mouth, floating heavily in the balmy spring air.

“Are you crazy?! We can’t. He’s the reason for this mess in the first place,” the venom that Jieun spits out in her voice is quite astounding, although not surprising.

“True as that may be, he’s our father, Ji,” Taeyong pleads. “And he’s still our king.” The last sentence is said with underlying hardness.

Jieun glances at him, gaze incredulous. Taeyong stares back, equally firm in his stance. They wage a silent battle of the eyes. Finally, she sighs through her nose. “A quarter of an hour. Then we leave.”

Taeyong breathes in the sweet night air, the smell of relief sharp in his nose.

The next fifteen minutes are spent as waiting is usually spent: in tense silence. A jump at every wayward noise, a stomach full of anxiously fluttering butterflies, jittering fingers. Taeyong’s hands pull self-consciously at the plain brown tunic he’s wearing. It feels two sizes too large and much looser than the typical palace wear in which his clothing is adorned by glittering gemstones and chains of jewelry. At last, Jieun rifles through her pack and triumphantly draws out a silk map. She carefully unfolds it and places it on the palm of her left hand.

“We’re here now.” She points at a red circle with her delicate index finger. Taeyong’s eyes trace the embroidered “Doriath” labeled underneath it. 

“The carriage will take us to Aeshire.” Her finger runs along a thin spider web of black string, to the south and west until it hits another black circle.

“Then, we’ll walk by foot until we reach this.” Her finger traces a dotted black line this time, weaving and winding to the black circle labeled “Caerborough.”

“From here, we can ride a ferry across Lake Clythrowe until we reach the Marshes.” Her finger finally comes to a halt at the looping black script embroidered in the southern portion of the kingdom.

Taeyong nods absentmindedly. They’d gone over the plan for what seems like a hundred times in the past week alone. Mark, however, follows along with the focused attention that is rather uncommon in twelve year olds. His doe brown eyes glitter with understanding and trepidation.

They wait in rigid silence for another few minutes. With each passing second, Taeyong can feel his spine draw straighter, his eyes strain harder for the telltale motion of his father’s sure gait. “Time is up. We have to go, Yong,” Jieun murmurs quietly. Already, Taeyong notes, her hands are fisted around her knapsack.

“Ji.” It’s a whisper, a plea, almost unintentionally slipping from Taeyong’s clenched lips and carried to Jieun’s ears by a gentle spring breeze.

“Yong, we can’t. Any later, and the carriage will be gone,” Jieun replies. Her heart is firm, her words even firmer.

Taeyong, at last, acquiesces. He gathers his own bag, turning one last time to commit the palace’s grand outline in his memory, before striding to catch up to his siblings.

None of them notice the wary pair of eyes that follow their movements. Before they disappear down the street, the owner of those eyes turns away from the second-story window he was glancing out of and nods silently. Moments later, two firecrackers shoot up in the air, briefly bathing the night in a bloody shade of red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look forward to very sporadic updates :DD


	3. lying awake, fading away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal children are on the way to escape from the rebels in Doriath. Taeyong reminisces about growing up in the palace and his friendships, especially his relationship with Lord Kim Doyoung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovelies!! i'm here with a new updateeee!
> 
> i included this factsheet in case you get confused at any point in the story and want to refer to a document: https://tinyurl.com/heavensweptfactsheet
> 
> the factsheet will get updated as more characters + settings are introduced in the story! i'm still kind of new to worldbuilding, so please be patient with me and leave any feedback you have in the comments below :))
> 
> hope y'all are staying safe + healthy in these uncertain times. enjoy this chapter!!

As they rush down the street, Taeyong’s vision goes red for a few seconds. Simultaneously, two thunderous booms are heard, briefly drowning out the protestors’ yells.

In the silent respite that follows, Mark whispers, “Noona, what was that?” Taeyong hears the quiver in his voice.

  
  


Jieun hesitates before answering, “Some rebel movements, probably. We need to move fast.” Taeyong knows she suspects more than she lets on, and he files the memory into his mind for later use.

  
  


Nothing else is shared between the three of them other than quick motions to move into darker shadows and skirt more well-illuminated areas of the cobblestone streets. Taeyong feels a rush of dread in his veins as the shouts of the protestors grow louder. His thumping heart almost seems to pulse in his ears, drowning out his surroundings. Every unusual sound, every movement in the periphery sparks a new wave of fear that crests uncomfortably in his stomach. But finally, finally, a dark outline of a cart rises in the distance.

  
  


“That’s it!” Jieun murmurs excitedly. They rush toward it with renewed vigor.

  
  


They reach the cart, their destined escape carriage. It’s hitched to two rather underfed mules, each with matted patches of fur and thin ribs protruding from underneath their lackluster skin. The cart itself is rather decrepit, with weathered wooden planks and shoddily attached wheels. The wooden frame is covered by a water-stained hemp cloth. Even the farmer driving the cart seems derelict. He’s dressed in patched clothing, threadbare in some places. The straw hat that sits on his head tattered as well, weathered by the passage of time. His face is lined with deep wrinkles, and it’s rough like their canvas bags. But at this point, Taeyong could care less about that. All he feels is a surge of thankfulness that the farmer is here.

  
  


“Can we hitch a ride to the market?” Jieun asks.

  
  


“Sure,” the farmer replies easily. “I just need to pick up four more bushels of apples on the way.”

  
  


“I think only three will be needed,” Jieun says.

  
  


The farmer pauses briefly, eyes scanning over the siblings, before nodding. “Help yourselves,” he says, tipping his head toward the back of the cart.

  
  


Taeyong nods in thanks. The three scramble into the back, settling themselves as comfortably as possible in the scratchy hay, bushels of what smell like fresh fruits, and hard wooden planks. Taeyong supposes they’re lucky to not have to share the space with livestock instead. (God knows he would probably suffocate if a pig rolled on him by accident.)

  
  


After the sharp crack of a whip, the cart starts up on its rickety journey. The wheels are so loose that Taeyong feels as if his eyeballs would be jolted out of his skull. After just a few seconds, his posterior feels bruised and sore. Looking over, Mark and Jieun aren’t faring much better. 

  
  


Perhaps the one good thing is that the noise masks any sounds they make inside. Evidently, Mark feels safe enough to ask, “What did he mean by the apples?”

  
  


Jieun smiles and ruffles his hair gently. “‘Bushels of apples’ was our code for the number of people he needed to smuggle out. I informed him that, well, Doyoung…” Here, she trails off and glances worriedly at Taeyong.

  
  


Taeyong feels a jolt in his gut when he hears the name. “Doie-hyung’s in a better place now,” he murmurs to Mark.

  
  


Mark nods. He snorts, “I’m old enough to know what happened. You don’t have to exclude me from your conversations,” in the typical endearing arrogance of a twelve-year-old. But then, he crawls over to Taeyong’s side and wraps his wiry limbs around him. The warm presence curling into Taeyong’s side makes a faint smile appear on his face.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Growing up when living in the center of the kingdom’s largest metropolis, and being the Crown Prince no less, Taeyong was constantly surrounded by friends. There was Kim Jungwoo, a soft-spoken and crescent-eyed boy three years younger than the prince. He was the eldest son of Lord Kim Seokjin, Head of Internal Palace Affairs. Naturally, as the two boys’ parents conversed about the happenings inside Doriath, Taeyong and Jungwoo grew closer and closer. The prince enjoyed their affable conversations, and Jungwoo’s sweet smile was guaranteed to always melt Taeyong’s heart.

  
  


Then there was Lee Irene and her younger brother, Lee Donghyuck. The siblings were the children of two tailors running a modest clothing business in Doriath. As a result, many of the council members, and even the king, viewed them as commoners. 

  
  


The royal children, of course, did not worry over such trivial concerns as supposed “status.” After all, Taeyong mused, they all bled and died the same as one another in the War of the Burning Suns, did they not? Was the fate of Lee Sooman, Taeyong’s grandfather, any different from the fate of a nameless peasant soldier fighting against the advancing Anduite army?

  
  


Lee Irene was the closest with Jieun, Taeyong’s elder sister and Princess of Cirellyth. They shared an almost familial bond; the two girls would spend their afternoons together, either in the palace’s spacious rooms or roaming in the bustling town square. Taeyong was less than interested in whatever gossip Jieun was undoubtedly squealing over. He had grown up with the princess and knew how nosy she could be on occasion. But Irene… well, she was gorgeous.

  
  


Taeyong knew from the very beginning that it was a foolish, hopeless endeavor. King Donghae would never allow courtship of any kind between the two of them, even on his deathbed. And Irene herself was undoubtedly uninterested in Taeyong - despite his status as the Crown Prince, she only saw him as the innocent younger brother of her best friend. 

  
  


Still, he couldn’t help but admire Irene’s beauty. Her doe-shaped, wide-set eyes seemed to radiate joy from within their brown depths. Her petite nose and the gentle curve of her jaw seemed to be sculpted more delicately than most of the snobby nobles Taeyong had the “pleasure” to meet. Her rosy lips seemed to always be fixed in either an adorable pout or a disarmingly stunning smile. When leveled with that smile, Taeyong always seemed to embarrass himself in the worst possible ways. 

  
  


He was painfully reminded of when he tripped over his own foot and shattered a five-hundred year old vase all because she flashed a dazzling beam and a soft, “Good morning, Your Highness” in his direction. Jieun had practically collapsed on the spot, alternating between dying of laughter at Taeyong’s mortification, and dying of laughter at the dreaded, inevitable temper of King Donghae. Sure enough, Taeyong was harshly lectured for half an hour in front of the entire court, with all the council members baffled and staring. But he found that the heartwarming happiness brought by Irene’s actions were enough to overshadow his embarrassment from the court’s judgemental glances and Jieun’s endless teasing.

  
  


On the other hand, Irene’s younger brother was all too willing to involve himself with the two princes. 

  
  


Lee Donghyuck was probably the sweetest and simultaneously the most annoying person Taeyong ever had the fortune to meet. The mischievous boy was able to rile up even the calmest of the council members with a few well-placed jabs, or charm the palace cooks into giving him heaps of delicacies with just a sunny smile and a sweet “please?” Taeyong couldn’t count the number of times that he had caved to one of Donghyuck’s outrageous requests just because of his alarmingly effective puppy eyes. 

  
  


Lee Donghyuck and Mark became fast friends in a heartbeat. Their personalities, although almost polar opposites, clicked surprisingly well. Where Donghyuck was bright and outgoing, ready to sweet-talk someone into a scandalous favor for hours and hours, Mark would only offer a gentle smile. Where Donghyuck was charming and loud, Mark was gentle and reserved. Where Donghyuck was overly brash, Mark would act as the voice of reason, calming down the other boy with soothing words and logical explanations. 

  
  


It was Donghyuck who cared for Mark the most following Queen Taeyeon’s untimely death. The other royal children were similarly consumed by sorrow, with the loss of their mother still throbbing like a festering wound. King Donghae was preoccupied with running the kingdom and also mourning the death of his wife as well. That left young Mark in solitude - until Donghyuck intervened.  Even though they were both only nine years old, the latter constantly stuck by Mark’s side like a small burr. He would crack lame jokes, accompany him anywhere and everywhere in the palace, bring him all kinds of delicacies - anything to get the prince to smile. After two weeks, his efforts paid off. Mark would no longer cry himself to sleep at night. Taeyong’s heart splintered each time he heard Mark’s pained sobs, but he, too, was mired in so much grief that any attempt at comforting words would not come). Instead, the brief glimpses of a smile that would light up the young prince’s face stemmed from Donghyuck’s vibrant conversations. 

  
  


For that, Taeyong was eternally grateful. As much of a troublesome brat he could be sometimes, when the occasion came, Donghyuck would sober up into a perfect young gentleman.

  
  


Of course, the royal children were friendly with the palace staff as well, treating them as friends rather than servants. It was not uncommon for Mark to address his caretaker, a twenty-two year old by the name of Moon Taeil, as “Illie-hyung.” In fact, Taeil became somewhat of a regular fixture in all three children’s lives, acting as a parental figure when the royal couple had to attend to their duties. Taeyong was especially thankful to the caretaker during the mourning period after the queen’s death, in which the entire royal family was embroiled in heartrending grief. Other than the children’s close friends (who, despite all their efforts, could only do so much to ease the despair), Taeil had been the one to provide Jieun, Mark, and Taeyong with a warm embrace, a steady shoulder to cry on, and soothing words. 

  
  


But no friendship of the Crown Prince could measure up the one with Doyoung. 

  
  


Lee Taeyong and Kim Doyoung seemed to be glued at the hip. From age five, the heir to the throne and the young lord of the House of Kim would play together, either in the private chambers of the palace or in the gardens. Very rarely would Prince Taeyong ever visit the House of Kim, but when he did, the entire lord’s mansion would be thrown into a flurry of motion. Servants would scrub the floors furiously until the stones were gleaming. Maids would rush around dusting every surface until it was immaculate and not a speck of dust could be found. Cooks would prepare mountains of delicacies and sweets that appealed to two young ones. What few knights Lord Kim possessed would stand rigidly at attention, armed with gleaming swords.

  
  


Some gossiped that poor young Lord Kim must feel overlooked in the presence of the dazzling prince. After all, Doyoung had every right to brag about his own bloodline. His father, the esteemed Lord Kim Yugyeom, was the Head of Commerce at the royal palace and close friends with King Donghae. Yugyeom rose to fame as a brilliant young commander during the War of the Burning Sun, leading the initial victories against the Anduites. Although Cirellyth ultimately lost the war, Yugyeom’s ingenious strategic maneuvers were lauded as heroic actions. Indeed, Lord Kim became somewhat of a military legend.

  
  


However, the rumors couldn’t be farther from the truth. From the start of the friendship, Taeyong and Doyoung treated each other as equals. In fact, it was common to hear Doyoung scream, “Taeyong, I will kill you!” While others would have been beheaded for the threat and informal language, Taeyong shrugged off the statement with a bright grin. The cheerful calls echoed through the hallways of the palace, bringing life and light that was stifled during the war and subsequent years.

  
  


As they grew older, their relationship matured from cheerful playmates to sparring partners and best friends. They would often receive lessons together from Head Knight Kim Heechul - one being the Prince of Cirellyth, and one being the son of modern military legend Kim Yugyeom. In fact, many afternoons would find the sun shining benevolently on two sweating youth, each sparring with wooden swords (and later, with actual ones).

  
  


There was much to be loved about Kim Doyoung. For one, his delicate features - although somewhat rabbit-like (and for this he was constantly teased by Taeyong), held genuine inquisitiveness and an openness that endeared him to almost everyone. As he matured into a fine young man, more and more people noticed the intense smoulder of his dark brown eyes and the gentle slope of his lips.

  
  


For another, Doyoung’s personality was quite the opposite of his outgoing father. Where Lord Yugyeom guffawed, Doyoung chuckled softly. Where his father boasted, the son praised gently. Where the former entertained the crowds with rapturing retellings of his military feats, the latter would listen attentively, intense eyes focused on the storyteller as if they held the world in their hands. 

  
  


And so Lord Doyoung became known as one of the kindest young nobles. While his father scoffed at the “soft-heartedness” of his son, an equal number rose up to praise the boy of his compassion.

  
  


Perhaps these are what prompted Taeyong and Doyoung’s foolish experiment.

  
  


It was in the midst of the hottest summer that anyone could remember, even the oldest council member. The sun beat down brutally in the palace courtyard, squeezing every drop of moisture from the inhabitants down below. Its scalding rays ravaged the earth from sunrise to sunset. The very trunks of the towering trees lining the square seemed to droop. Taeyong’s sparring uniform was completely soaked with sweat, and Doyoung was even worse off - the drops of moisture were actually dripping from the edges of his clothing. 

Even Head Knight Heechul wasn’t at the sun’s mercy; his glinting metal armor burned to touch, and under the brim of his helmet, Heechul’s face beaded with countless drops of sweat.

  
  


It didn’t stop him from barking, “One more repetition!” to the two tired youngsters. Their only response was a heavy groan after a series of heavy pants.

  
  


Finally, mercifully, the knight ended their training session. The reprieve was not a minute too late, for Taeyong felt as if he would collapse from dehydration any second. His throat was completely parched, dry as a desert, and the sweat stuck uncomfortably to his throbbing arms. The two boys trudged wearily into the changing rooms, heads drooping and arms lax. It was as if they, too, were plants being beaten down under the merciless sun.

  
  


A glance and nod was all Taeyong and Doyoung needed to confirm their next plans - a bath in the nearby creek. It would be a pleasant respite from the sweltering sun.

  
  


After stripping off their drenched clothing and switching on tunics, the two rejuvenated youths raced each other to the small patch of preserved nature in the palace grounds.

  
  


Looking back, Taeyong knew that it was a mere simulation of the wondrous beauty possessed by the Woodlands. But as young fourteen-year-olds who had only seen the bustling capital city, a grove of soaring trees and a merrily bubbling creek was awe-inspiring enough. Without hesitation, Doyoung leapt into the pleasantly cool creek waters. Taeyong followed suit a second later.

  
  


They spent the first hour splashing around, reacquainting themselves with the familiar nooks and crannies of the riverbank like an old friend. They inquisitively observed the shy animals - a family of birds (Taeyong coos at them in a scarily accurate impression of his mother), a curious frog, a few tiny fish that wiggle by, a fluttering dragonfly gliding lazily in the oppressive summer heat.

  
  
  


Eventually, even the most energetic boys tired under the merciless heat of the sun. Doyoung stepped out of the cool waters and settled comfortably on the bank, carpeted by a blanket of soft moss.

  
  


Taeyong floated on his back in the creek, sleepily drifting in an exact mirror of the lazy dragonflies circling above. “Doie,” he murmured, the endearment rolling smoothly off his tongue like fresh caramel, “I want to fall in love with a beautiful princess someday.”

  
  


Doyoung, as many young rowdy boys of that age liked to act, was of the exact opposite opinion. He snorted and wrinkled his nose. (Taeyong thought his resemblance to a bunny was especially strong.) “Girls are so weird! They like such weird things and - they’re just gross! When Father and Mother kiss, I always want to puke.”

  
  


Taeyong shot up, water splashing everywhere. On the riverbank, Doyoung gave a startled protest as his tunic was doused. Taeyong, however, paid it no mind and continued, “Doyoung, are you kidding? Kissing is the best part of courting someone.”

  
  


Doyoung picked at the grass under his feet sullenly. “Taeyong-hyung, you’re most certainly wrong. I once kissed someone and it was absolutely horrif-”

  
  


“You WHAT?!” Taeyong’s screech echoed so shrilly that a family of ducks nearby startled, taking rapid flight.

  
  


Doyoung shrugged with an air of self-importance. “It was terrible, as I said.”

  
  


Taeyong frantically waded ashore, crawling up the bank with his sopping wet tunic.

  
  


“Who?” he asked eagerly, wide eyes aglow with fervent curiosity.

  
  


Doyoung paused. Their faces were mere inches apart - Taeyong’s shining with excitement, Doyoung’s perturbed.

  
  


“No one of interest,” he replied, cautiously inching back with each word. “Now get away from me!”

  
  


Taeyong ignored his last statement, instead summoning his most effective weapon: big, big doe eyes and an adorable pout. “Doie… you’re my best friend! Best friends don’t keep secrets, right?”

  
  


Doyoung stared, alarmed, for a solid five seconds before he caved (as, inevitably, everyone did in the face of Taeyong’s powerful pout). Finally, he mumbled, “It was Yeri.”

  
  


“ Kim Yeri?!” Taeyong shrieked again. “Head Knight Heechul’s daughter?!”

  
  


Doyoung jumped frantically, eyes darting around. “Shut up!” he hissed angrily. “Do you want the entire palace to know?”   
  


  
Taeyong merely rolled his eyes, well used to Doyoung’s exaggerations. “Well, she’s quite pretty. How was it? Was it weird? Did you enjoy it? Did you kiss for a long time? Did you…” at this, Taeyong frowned, repulsed, before shaking his head and resolutely forging ahead, “use tongue?”

  
  


Doyoung’s eyebrows climbed steadily higher with each subsequent question. “Lee Taeyong, where did you learn all this disgusting information?” Doyoung asked with incredulity.

  
  


Taeyong shook his head again, as if batting away an annoying fly. “Unimportant. Now answer my questions!”

  
  


Doyoung leveled him with a withering gaze. Finally, he conceded. “I don’t know what you want to know about,” he grumbled, “but it was nothing special. A peck on the lips. And,” Doyoung held up a palm to forestall the questions bubbling out of Taeyong, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “No. No tongue was involved. Is your morbid curiosity satisfied now, Your Highness?”

  
  


Taeyong huffed. “Doyoung, stop being so disrespectful to your hyung, and more importantly, your future king!” His eyes darted around furtively before he ducked his head and whispered theatrically, “I’ll have you know that I could have you executed.”

  
  


Doyoung took one look at his serious face before bursting into laughter so hard he snorted. Soon, Taeyong dissolved into giggles as well, flopping down on the moss-covered ground with an ungraceful “thump” that just set them off even more.

  
  


And they were just two young boys dripping with creek water, gushing with laughter, oozing happiness, bright eyes lighting up the world, blissfully unaware of their noble duties or of the years of hardship to come.

  
  


Eventually, the giggling tapered off into occasional breathy chuckles.

  
  


Suddenly, Taeyong sprung up from where he was lying on his back, his face once again inches away from Doyoung’s. This time, the air seemed sucked dry of any laughter. The levity from moments ago was replaced by a bone-deep tension - the calm before a raging storm (though of what, Taeyong doesn’t know).

  
  


Doyoung’s lips parted gently, a hint of tongue peeking through between his cute bunny teeth.

  
  


“Do you want me to show you?” he asked, though it came out breathy and almost like a sultry whisper.

  
  


Taeyong’s tongue flickered out, wetting his pink lips.

  
  


To be truthful, the young prince had… admired his best friend before. Doyoung had lost copious amounts of the baby fat that once rounded out his adorable face. Now, only a tiny bit was clinging on obstinately to his cheeks, yet it made his features seem more delicate. His brown almond eyes transformed seemingly overnight from big and curious to intense and, in the words of the gossiping wives at the town marketplace, “smoldering.” Doyoung’s height had also shot up over the past year, surpassing Taeyong and even nearing the stature of Lord Yugyeom. Not only that, but his shoulders were broadening at a rather alarming pace. Under Doyoung’s wet tunic, the prince could see the ripple of toned muscles as his friend shifted around. His torso tapered into a thin waist, matching with his delicate facial features.

  
  


Alright, Taeyong did more than just watch Doyoung. Sometimes at night, he would dream of his lips on a girl’s soft, supple ones. At first, he would think it was Irene. They would explore one another’s mouths, each nip as hungry as the last. As they broke for air, Taeyong would draw back to examine of the face of the mystery girl and -

  
  


It was always Doyoung.

  
  


Taeyong would wake up with a start, lips tingling from the phantom kiss and heart thumping (with fear? With arousal? Taeyong didn’t know either.) He knew it was illegal. Men didn’t kiss men like they kiss women; it was wrong. Rumored homosexuals would be arrested and tried in court - if they had sinned, they were exiled from the kingdom.

  
  


But God, did Taeyong want it. It was a sin, but the blood in his veins burned for Doyoung.

  
  


So, when Doyoung’s sultry whisper and heated gaze asked for permission, Taeyong breathed out a soft “Yes.” His hot exhale fanned onto Doyoung’s face, and in another second, the two’s lips crashed together.

  
  


It was messy. It was tongue and hard teeth and moans and hands everywhere. They fought for dominance like their sparring sessions with Head Knight Heechul, each vying to get the last move. It was a violent battle, and it was even better than what Taeyong had wished for.

  
  


A minute later, they broke apart, panting for air.

  
  


Presently, Doyoung gasped, “Well, that was different from Yeri.”

  
  


Taeyong hummed and giggled, “Head Knight Heechul will kill you if he finds out.”

  
  


After The Incident (Taeyong had taken to referring to it in his mind with capital letters), they didn’t ever talk about it. The two friends trained as always, retreated to their private hideouts together, studied complex lessons for finances, war strategies, commerce, and management, but they never brought up The Incident.

  
  


Instead, they participated in similar occurrences several more times.

  
  


It was almost spontaneous; some days, they would lock eyes and just feel the burning desire thumping in tandem with their hearts. It was a flaming, oxygen-consuming, roaring passion. It ate them inside out - it bore their souls open as they clashed with their weapons: tongue and teeth and mouths and groping hands.

  
  


But the passion died as mysteriously as it began. After they broke apart, panting for air, each went about readjusting their own clothing and hair to look somewhat presentable. Sometimes, a muffled “thanks,” was thrown in amidst the quiet shuffling. It would hang in the air a bit awkwardly for a second, but the other person was sure to offer a small smile that dissipated any tension.

  
  


The ultimate incident was during midnight in the dead of winter, the week after Queen Taeyeon’s passing. The church bell chimed twice dolefully, its haunting tolls echoing eerily across the city. Other than that, the earth seemed robbed of all sound, all warmth, all life. There was almost no light other than a few feebly struggling stars; even the moon had disappeared. The sky, usually a comforting blanket of velvet, seemed pitch dark in comparison, like black ink spilling across a page and consuming everything in its path. It was in stark contrast to their first kiss - unbearable mid-afternoon heat, a few days from midsummer, the raging sun setting the blue sky alight with blinding white. 

  
  


Taeyong stood outside the west entrance of the Palace, shivering violently in a nightgown and thin sweater. His hair seemed to radiate a silver glow that rivalled all the stars combined.

  
  


In the muted silence of the world, the abrupt patter of quick footsteps on cobblestone echoed loudly. Doyoung approached, an easy grin fixed on his face. His teeth gleamed like pearls.

  
  


“So the rumors are true! Your hair turned white?” he asked after coming to a stop in front of the prince.

  
  


Some part of Taeyong wanted to respond with a witty retort, a playful slap or wink. Doyoung and Taeyong’s relationship was so familiar that it almost rolled off his tongue automatically. 

  
  


But a larger part of his heart was still unspeakably, implacably, wholly consumed by heavy grief. So Taeyong only looked at Doyoung with a blank stare. He willed himself not to cry - heaven knows he’s shed far, far too many tears in the last week. Nevertheless, a surge of burning liquid seared the lower lashes of his eyes.

  
  


Doyoung took a few steps nearer, and one fleeting glance was all it took for the young lord to wrap Taeyong in a steady hug. It was warm and toasty and comforting and a remnant of the sweet life Taeyong had before… before his mother’s death.

  
  


As the warmth enveloped him, so did Taeyong’s emotions.

  
  


His crying, as always, was ungainly and wretched. His ugly sobs were torn out of him, ripped from his lungs and shoved out of his mouth. His tears dripped unattractively down from red-rimmed eyes, swollen from rough hands swiping over them. His arms wrapped tightly around Doyoung’s torso, trying to seek for the warmth and comfort only close friends could bring.

  
  


While the prince’s sobs raged, Doyoung stayed as a steady pillar of support, the sturdy shoreline bracing to meet the howling tempest. He hushed, soothed, offered gentle words of comfort as Taeyong cried himself dry on Doyoung’s shoulder. He held the Crown Prince as he was falling apart at the seams, his remaining family shattered into seemingly irreconcilable pieces.

  
  


Finally, the sobs petered away into occasional sniffles. Taeyong whispered, hoarse with grief and exhaustion, “Please, Doyoung. Kiss me.”

  
  


Doyoung looked down at the prince and smiled. It was a smile of heartbreak, aching with sympathy for his friend. “I cannot, Taeyong.”

  
  


Taeyong felt more tears slip down his face. They carved silver trails borne of desperation on his cheeks. “Why not? Doie, please. I-I need it now…”

  
  


Doyoung merely shook his head again. His voice was soft as down, softer than it had ever been, yet the words pierced his soul more than the sharpest of blades. “It would only hurt you more, Taeyong. I’m here as your best friend, not a potential lover, and much less a fling.”

  
  


“Okay,” Taeyong whispered, crestfallen. His shattered heart felt as if it had fallen further into his gut, the shards too broken to fix. 

  
  


Seconds later, warm lips pressed gently on his forehead, heating the cold skin underneath. Doyoung put a slender finger under Taeyong’s chin, lifting it up ever so slowly until their eyes met. One was swimming with ivory tears and bottomless despair; the other was tender with sympathy. 

  
  


“Listen to me, Yong. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re the Crown Prince of Cirellyth, heir to the throne. You can win in a sparring match with a knight twice your age. You mediate between the King and the Princess on a daily basis. You know the court and its council members back to front. I know you can get through this, no matter how painful and impossible it may seem right now. I believe in you, Lee Taeyong, and the people believe in you.”

  
  


Doyoung’s eyes were alight, practically glowing from within from convinction. His raven black hair seemed to almost float in the air, framing his face in an otherworldly splendor. As Taeyong looked up at his friend, he was overtaken by the urge to kiss him one last time.

  
  


And so he did. 

  
  


Doyoung was cut off by a truncated “Mmph!” in his speech as Taeyong’s mouth surged against his. The kiss tasted of salty tears and bitter regret, of elusive silver and muted ivory. For once, it was not bruising or forceful; it was a gentle press, a tender brush of lips, a vulnerable last goodbye. When they pulled apart, panting lightly for breath, Taeyong smiled almost imperceptibly - it was the first semblance of happiness that he had felt in weeks. “Thank you, Doyoung.”

  
  


Doyoung, slightly dazed, repeated with no less conviction, “I believe in you, Lee Taeyong, and the people believe in you. Remember that.” And then he was gone, raven locks vanishing quickly into the black ether of the night.

  
  


The festering and fatal wound of the Queen’s passage dulled with time, and so, too, did Taeyong’s raw grief. A few years later, Doyoung and Taeyong looked back on those incidents and laughed at their foolish experiments. Their relationship remained platonic. They were better suited to be one another’s best friends, confidants, lifelong companions. 

  
  


Until Doyoung was killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all for today!!
> 
> factsheet: https://tinyurl.com/heavensweptfactsheet
> 
> also, i have just recently started to stan exo, and i'm so sad :( i wish i stanned them wayyy earlier when lay was still doing promos and xiumin and kyungsoo were still there!!!


	4. moonrise, soaring meteorites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * w a r n i n g * - graphic depictions of violence in this chapter!! blood/gore
> 
> taeyong relives doyoung's death. the lee children continue their escape from the rebellion in doriath. they stumble upon an unexpected scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * w a r n i n g * - graphic depictions of violence in this chapter!! blood/gore
> 
> i'm not exactly sure how to give warnings properly ^ but be warned that there may be potential triggers!!
> 
> \-- -- -- --
> 
> factsheet for anyone who needs it: https://tinyurl.com/heavensweptfactsheet
> 
> \-- -- -- --
> 
> finally up with another update!! thank you all SO MUCH for the kudos + comments ^///^ they were so sweet and lovely, and they really motivated me to write chapter 4 even faster!!
> 
> this chapter was kinda disorganized because sometimes i just went on rambling about the description of scenery   
> (-_-)ゞ゛sorry y'allll
> 
> btw, i originally projected this fic to have about 8-9 chapters, but i'm now realizing it's gonna at least be 13-14... i write more than i think i would for some scenes ಠ_ಠ
> 
> also if you can't tell i just discovered emoticon keyboards and they're sosososo cool hehehe (｡♥‿♥｡) ψ(｀∇´)ψ 
> 
> \-- -- -- --
> 
> with that said, hope y'all enjoy this update!!! ( ˘ ³˘)❤

It was just a month before Taeyong’s eighteenth birthday when he was notified by a breathless Mark that Doyoung was being executed in the town square. Taeyong had regarded the young boy with a critical eye. “That’s probably one of the worst jokes you’ve ever said,” he deadpanned, turning his attention back to the parchment on his writing desk.

  
  


“Taeyong-hyung, please. I’m not kidding. Doyoung-hyung’s in danger!” The real note of panic in his younger brother’s voice sparked unease in Taeyong’s heart.

  
  


Taeil, Mark’s appointed caretaker, had hastened into the room then, still wheezing for breath and sweating buckets. “A-apologies, Your Highness, for the sudden interruption,” he panted out between gasps, "but Lord Doyoung is about to be executed."

  
  


Taeyong felt as if the ground had crumbled under his feet. His heart swooped in quivering fear before it was rabbiting out of his chest in adrenaline. With a trembling voice, he managed to rasp out, “Taeil-hyung, take me there. Mark, go back to your room.”

  
  


They sprinted to the square faster than Taeyong had ever run in his life. His feet barely seemed to feel the harsh slap against the cobblestone roads, and he didn’t even register the local townspeople milling before his eyes. His sole focus was Doyoung, Doyoung, Doyoung, Doyoung -

  
  


There was already a throng of spectators gathered at the square. The crowd was denser than thick molasses; they would not yield to Taeyong’s queries, nor his desperate pushes.

  
  


Eventually, he was able to squirm his way to the front of the crowd through some heavy jostling, muttered curses, and nimble twists of his wiry body. But what Taeyong saw made his blood stop cold.

  
  


Because there Doyoung was, a noose made of coarse rope draped around his neck. He stood on a rickety, poorly-made wooden platform, and under his feet was something akin to a trapdoor. There was an executioner standing there as well, the head of a pistol gleaming threateningly under the sun’s rays. He was reading a decree of some sort - something to do with treason in the military and some other horseshit.

  
  


Taeyong hardly cared about that.

  
  


All he cared about was his best friend, strung up there to be executed, and a gaggle of heartless townspeople watching the proceedings from below with detached eyes and curious whispers. All he cared about was Doyoung’s resigned, solemn expression. His dark eyes roved over the square, but they contained nothing other than acceptance and a hint of sadness. 

  
  


Even confronted with death, Doyoung was still so achingly gentle.

  
  


Almost unconsciously, Taeyong’s mouth was running. “Please, sir! Stop! Let him go!” he screamed. But his pleas were swallowed by the rumbling, restless crowd. They were eager for blood, Taeyong realized, ready for a show. 

God, Taeyong had never despised anything more than the burning hatred he felt then. "Stop this!" he yelled again.

But before he could say anything, do anything more, the executioner pulled on a lever, and the trapdoor beneath Doyoung’s feet opened. His body, pulled down by gravity, fell down and down and down -

  
  


Until the rope around his neck caught, jerking his neck with a sickening snap.

  
  


If Taeyong had felt the ground crumble beneath him before, now the world was crashing down from its axis, splintering into pieces. 

  
  


The sounds of the surrounding crowd came to him muffled, through a layer of static. He could barely hear the murmurs of the townspeople, the head-shaking and the tutting. It almost took a full minute before Taeyong finally realized that Taeil was shouting in his ear, “We have to go now, Your Highness, please!” 

  
  


Only then did Taeyong feel the wetness on his cheeks. He turned to meet Taeil’s gaze. “H-hyung, Doyoung, he’s -”

  
  


Taeil cupped the prince’s face in his hands and wiped away the trail of tears. It was a futile effort, for more instantly rolled down from Taeyong’s eyes. Taeil pitched his voice to be soft and soothing. “I know, Your Highness, I know. Focus on my eyes right now, okay? We need to leave now; it won’t be safe around here any longer. I just need you to stay strong until we reach the palace, alright?”

  
  


Taeyong processed everything through the haze of grief clouding his mind, numbing his senses. He didn’t know if he nodded, but Taeil must’ve taken his silence as agreement. As the caretaker’s gentle hand wrapped around his wrist and they trekked back to the palace, Doyoung’s limp corpse seemed to float in front of his eyes.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The next few weeks inched by agonizingly slowly. Taeyong felt as if there was constantly a raging fire burning in the pit of his stomach, alternating between soul-consuming grief and scorching anger. 

  
  


He had begged with his father, got down on his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground, practically groveled for hours. He asked the king to execute Doyoung’s murderers and investigate the situation. But Taeyong knew as well as the king that rebellion was stirring. Even in the secluded palace, hidden behind opulent gilded doors and silk drapes, obscured by a haze of grief for his best friend, the crown prince heard of the restless occurrences throughout the nation. Peasants refusing to work on the farms. Rebels torching nobles’ lands in the countryside. Rumors were circulating of General Jackson Wang returning from his post at Strathclyde - against the king’s orders.

  
  


Any aggression against the people would be the spark that ignited the revolution. A public investigation into Doyoung’s death and the subsequent executions would be perceived as just that.

  
  


Some nights, after arduous days filled with lonely hours and the phantom brush of Doyoung’s arm around his shoulders, Taeyong's body would be wracked with sobs. His grief tugged at his very heartstrings, pulling and twisting and threatening to snap the feeble bindings of his soul in half. He was the crown prince, famed Lord Yugyeom was Doyoung’s father, and yet, neither of them could lift a single finger to avenge Doyoung.

  
  


In Taeyong’s dreams, Doyoung would visit him. The former would apologize, would beg and get down on his knees, would cry for his best friend to return. But the ghost of Doyoung said nothing, expressed nothing, only stared at him with his solemn, gentle eyes and his sad, sad smile. 

  
  


During the night, tendrils of heavy guilt snaked their way into his heart, and their cold clutches gripped his soul. It was constant, heavy, like half his lungs were always filled with water.

  
  


“I’m sorry, Doie,” he’d whisper in tandem with the tears dripping down his cheeks. The vast void of loneliness answered with an echo of Doyoung’s voice, now preserved only in the fragile jars of Taeyong’s memory.

  
  


But when the abyss of loneliness threatened to swallow him whole, there were still Jieun and Mark standing steadfastly at his side. They were there to beat back the all-consuming darkness from engulfing what feeble flames of life still sputtered in Taeyong’s soul. They were there to light his path, to guide him back to the land of the living and away from the dark precipice between life and death.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Doyoung’s death is still a fresh wound in his mind as they escape the rebel movement. On one side, Taeyong is evading the unforgiving grip of the Rebellion. On the other, he’s slipping through the frigid clutches of his dark memories.

  
  


Taeyong jolts awake from his drowse by a violent jerk from the cart. Disoriented, his gaze flits around the cramped surroundings, from the crudely built wooden bushels that were wobbling precariously to Jieun’s apprehensive face. Her teeth gnaw nervously on her bottom lip. It makes her mouth seem blood red in what scant amounts of pre-dawn sunlight weaved past the threadbare hemp cloth covering the cart.

  
  


Mark starts to ask, “What’s going -” before Jieun hastily claps her hand over his mouth.

  
  


Then, as Taeyong’s sleep-muddled brain finally shrugs off the unrelenting grasp of slumber, the true extent of the situation registers.

  
  


They are the three royal children, now fugitives whom the Rebellion wanted the heads of, whom the Rebellion specifically forbid anyone aiding. And yet here they are, clearly being smuggled out of Doriath. Just one look at the scene, and even a brainless half-wit could see the guilt written all over their faces. 

  
  


The cart is at a complete standstill in the middle of the road, in unobstructed view from anyone who wished to capture them. Is this how it’s going to end, then? The royal heirs handed to the rebels on a silver platter, executed a scant few hours after the revolution’s start?

  
  


None of them even dare to breathe. Taeyong’s heart feels like bursting - from the burn in his lungs due to a lack of oxygen, from petrifying fear coursing through his blood, the adrenaline rush stabbing daggers into his tingling limbs.

  
  


Jieun shifts ever so slightly and raps twice on the wooden floor of the cart. In the thick blanket of silence rather common to an early dawn, the sound may as well be gunshots signaling their position. 

  
  


A few seconds later, the weathered face of the farmer emerges from the folds of the hemp cloth. Taeyong almost sighs in relief at the sight of their ally. His words are muttered almost imperceptibly - indeed, the farmer’s lips barely open at all.

  
  


His whispers are hurried now, packed with information and frantic in his delivery. “The guards are searching carts now. There’s a short procession in front of us, and it’ll probably give you five minutes at most. No one is behind us right now, so sneak out from the back, and continue heading southwest through the woods. I’ve taken you three about a fourth of the way to Aeshire; you still need to walk maybe fifteen more miles. Stay on the small roads, not the main ones; no doubt the guards will be patrolling those for the next few weeks. And never use your real name - you three are no longer the Lees. Got it?"

  
  


Mark and Taeyong whisper back their understanding, and Jieun holds out a small pouch. From the quiet clinking emanating as it shifts, the bag seems to be filled with gold.

  
  


The farmer shakes his head at the sight. “God knows you youngsters will need it more than I do. Remember, stick to small paths and avoid giving out any names or identification whenever possible. Now go, before someone else comes up behind us!”

  
  


At the urgent hiss, they stealthily slip out of the cart. Jieun clambers down first, feet landing silently on the path. Although the muddy dirt masks any accidental sounds, it also leaves a clear mold of their footsteps. Taeyong winces internally and prays that the next carts passing by will obscure their tracks. 

  
  


Jieun and Taeyong help Mark down next, and then Taeyong hands her their canvas bags. Finally, he slips out as well. The three of them creep past the waist-high reeds thriving in abundance next to the road. Instead, they head into the denser shrubbery that dusts the outskirts of the forest.

  
  


Their escape is not a moment too soon, for in the distance, the steady plodding of iron horseshoes and reverberating crack of a whip echo through the vicinity.

  
  


They’re already ensconced within the concealing safety of towering tree trunks before Taeyong dares to turn back. He can catch a few glimpses of movement on the road - a flash of blood-red uniform, the blinding glint of metal reflecting dawn’s feeble rays. A faint bark, so characteristic of the military’s harsh commands, travels to Taeyong’s ears as well.

  
  


The color of the uniform, the jarring cadence of the command, the coincidental searches on civilians... With a sinking feeling in his gut, Taeyong grimly turns to meet Jieun’s worried eyes. “General Wang is leading the Reds,” he murmurs.

  
  


She sighs, and Taeyong is struck with how weary she sounded. “So the rumors are true; General Wang and his National Army has sided with the rebels,” she surmises hollowly. “That makes our chances of escape…”

  
  


“We’ll be okay,” Taeyong asserts, voice full of false bravado. One of them has to put on appearances for the sake of their sanity, and if not for that, at least for poor Mark.

  
  


“Let’s go, noona. The farmer said we still had fifteen more miles; we can get there before nightfall and find an inn to stay in,” he says. With another gentle tug on her sleeve, Jieun snaps out of her daze and nods. From the folds of her plain cloak, she draws out an emerald-encrusted compass.

  
  


At Taeyong’s sharp glare and Mark’s inquisitive gaze, Jieun hurries to explain, “We can sell it if needed. And it’s useful when we’re traveling.”

  
  


Taeyong hisses back, “Weren’t you the one who warned us  _ several times  _ about not bringing any jewelry? I thought we agreed on gold only!”

  
  


Jieun matches his glare. “The compass has a dual use.”

  
  


Taeyong protests again, “How are you going to explain it if someone searches us and finds -”   
  


“They won’t. I’ll make sure of it. Now come on, we need to leave now if we want to reach Aeshire by today,” Jieun snaps harshly. Her tone is filled with a fiery warning, so reminiscent of her days of passionate advocacy in the palace’s court. Taeyong knows to back down before they waste time with even more bickering and Jieun inevitably explodes.

  
  


They trek through the woods under the direction of the compass. With dawn’s soft, ember-like rays just starting to glow from the east, the few shafts of light that penetrate the forest’s canopy are awfully dim. Taeyong strains his eyes, struggling to discern the knobby tree roots transgressing horizontally across the unkempt dirt path they're walking on. Several times, he stumbles over wayward branches of underbrush. The rough bark seems to ensnare his legs, grasping at his ankles and scratching harshly against his skin.

  
  


It doesn’t help that the night’s chill, still not dispelled by the dormant sun, starts to seep into Taeyong’s bones. The coldness resides like heavy stones within his gut, chasing away any vestiges of warmth from the carriage ride. Shivering, he wraps his thin tunic around himself even tighter and trudges onward.

  
  


At long last, the blood red rays gradually turn rosy, then morph into a florid orange. Finally, the splendid sun peeks out over the mountaintops, painting the sky with bold strokes of gold and blinding ivory. Even from within the dense forest, rays pierce through the thick branches and illuminate their path.

  
  


Jieun sighs audibly in relief. “Thank the Lord we can see now,” she chirps, offering a smile rivaling the sun’s bright radiance. Taeyong takes it as an olive branch and hums in agreement.

  
  


Soon enough, the surrounding air warms up as well. Taeyong is no longer a shivering mess of chattering teeth and numb fingertips; rather, he basks in the balmy, mellow sunlight as it chases away the chill. 

  
  


With dawn breaking, the wildlife stirs awake as well. Nearby, birds twitter a lively song. He can hear the rustle of some small animal pushing through the underbrush nearby, the ruffling sniffs of a predator looking for a meal. Farther away, an owl hoots its farewell as it prepares for a day’s sleep.

  
  


The dirt path they’re walking on is blanketed by a thick layer of browning leaves. Each step Taeyong takes is muffled, swallowed by the vast immensity of the forest. The towering trees scrape the skies, looking down on the trio in apathetic silence. Their weathered trunks are huge - it would take twenty men to circle around it, and then some to even attempt felling the tree.

  
  


Taeyong wonders how much they’ve seen, how much wisdom they’ve accumulated over the years. He used to marvel at the history of some rooms in the palace, especially the dungeons, which seemed as old as the start of civilization itself. But even that pales in comparison to the solemn, silent presence of the ancient forest.

  
  


Sometimes, humans feel truly insignificant. To these trees, even the bloody Grim War must’ve seemed like two immature, bickering children. What was the purpose of those gaudy jewels and silk draperies, petty squabbles and foolish declarations of enmity in the face of such immense, breathtaking nature? It could swallow you whole in a heartbeat and leave your family none the wiser. 

  
  


His mind flits back to the luxuries in the palace, to his father, and he bites his lip in worry. Taeyong prays that the king has made it out safe, alive, spared from the raging mobs of the city. Those crowds feed off one another’s energy until they unite into a storm of blazing rage, tearing down anything and everything in their path. If his father had not left by the day’s end, he would be done for.

  
  


After a few more hours, when the sun is well on its way to its mid-day zenith, Mark’s pace starts to slow down. Jieun offers a worried glance, and Taeyong lends a steadying hand. Although the youngest flashes back a grateful smile, it’s not ten minutes before he stumbles over a protruding root yet again. 

  
  


“Alright, let’s take a short break. We can eat now - treat it as your early lunch,” Jieun commands. As soon as the words leave her mouth, Mark huffs out a grateful sigh before unceremoniously dropping to sit right in the center of the path. Taeyong follows suit, albeit slightly more gracefully after he carefully places his canvas sack down on the carpet of leaves. Jieun eventually does so as well, gingerly sitting down on a mossy rock that’s standing sentry at the edge of the road. Then she retrieves a few meager pieces of bread and a canteen of water from her bag.

  
  


They accept it without question. The bread, a loaf Taeyong snuck out from the kitchen pantry during their escape, is still relatively fresh. The thirst-quenching water revives him as well, clearing away the muddy residue in his mind that comes with sweat and physical exertion. All in all, the meal is quite satisfactory - nowhere near the opulent feasts they were fed every day at the palace, but more than sufficient enough for three fugitives on the run.

  
  


As the sun ascends the throne of the sky, splashing the earth below it with dazzling hues and gentle warmth alike, the three continue to trek steadily through the forest. The leaves above shift merrily to a secret breeze that nature hums to her brethren. It causes the dappled sunlight to waver, throwing glowing white spots across the foliage and the ground beneath their feet.

  
  


If they were going to die soon at the hands of the Rebels, Taeyong would be happy enough having experienced a day in the vast, unsullied forest.

  
  


After mindlessly watching trunk after trunk pass by for more than half the day, Taeyong is startled when the forest finally seems to be thinning out. The towering trees are gradually replaced by thick underbrush and draping vines overhead, which then thin out into patchy shrubbery. At long last, when the late-afternoon sun dulls in its vibrant glow and is already retiring for bed, the forest path finally merges onto a bigger road.

The road seems to travel to the ends of the earth, stretching indefinitely to scale up the distant mountains and straight into the heavens. How Taeyong wishes he could escape along its simple curves, away from the bloodthirsty Rebellion and fade into peaceful obscurity. Alas, the road they currently tread on cuts through a desolate moorland. The scenery is bleak with wild weeds springing up unbridled from the swampy soil. Stringy clumps of brittle grass, the remaining survivors of the harsh winter months, crunch under their feet.

  
  


In stark contrast, the sky above them is breathtakingly beautiful, painted in watery strokes of rich ochre and smoky brass. Taeyong can almost hear the glittering stars pop into existence in the early evening sky, glowing pinpricks of white scattered by God’s trailing fingertips against the purple-indigo canvas. To the east, the moon’s pale, mystic light spills across the ultramarine sky as if some heavenly being had carelessly knocked over a jar of the ether’s faint glow. The dusk is calm and soothing,  when everything is not quite asleep but not quite awake either.

  
  


Taeyong is so absorbed in marveling at the profound beauty that he hardly notices Mark’s sharp gasp. He only realizes that they’ve halted when he bumps into the younger.

  
  


“Hey Mark, what’s going on?” he queries worriedly. Stopping in the middle of a public road would do them no favors while escaping to Aeshire.

  
  


And then Taeyong’s eyes fall on the ditch a few paces away.

  
  


At first glance, it’s nothing too surprising - just a wayward pothole. The feeble lighting seems to illuminate something in the ditch, most likely discarded waste or trash. But then he steps closer, eyes focusing on something wet and glinting.

  
  


It takes a few seconds before it registers, and then Taeyong screams.

  
  


It’s a bloody eyeball.

  
  


Even with the sunset’s dimming glow, he makes out more dismembered body parts - what seems like a finger, half of a forearm, and oozing guts dumped carelessly into the ditch. He smells the faint, pungent odor of rotting, overshadowed by the sharp metallic tang of blood.

  
  


“M-Mark, look away,” Taeyong commands shakily. He desperately tries to grasp at his last shreds of calmness, lest an unhinged shriek escape from his lips at the grisly sight. Mark obeys immediately, body trembling with revulsion. Nearby, Jieun is anchored to the ground with similar terror.

  
  


For a few seconds, a terrified silence hangs like noxious fog over the trio. The only noise whirling through Taeyong's brain is the faint, mournful howling of the wind sweeping over the moorland. It echoes eerily across the plain, almost like God’s melancholic sigh.

  
  


Jieun finally breaks the silence and creeps closer, her shoes crunching ominously on the dried grass below. Her quivering whisper is near silent, but the words hang heavy in the air. “Taeyong… why does that look like Father’s ring?”

  
  


His heart drops down, down, down into his feet, into the ground, into the fiery depths of Hell. Mark’s wounded cry echoes across the moorland as one with the sobs of the wind.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They hurriedly leave the ghastly scene. The ring that Jieun spotted is identical to the one that Father treasured so much - a large viridian emerald surrounded by a ring of glinting diamonds. The one in the ditch is splattered with dried blood, but other than the specks of vermilion, it really is the same as King Donghae’s ring.

  
  


Taeyong supposes they’re really on their own now.

  
  


There would be no National Army to quench the Rebellion as they had done time and time before. There would be no loyal guards to save or protect them. There would not even be the presence of their father. 

It’s just them: Jieun, Taeyong, Mark. 

Maybe they’re doomed from the start. They're a sorry trio of siblings who’ve never once journeyed alone, used to being waited on hand and foot in the splendor of the palace, pampered with luxury and adored by the nation. On the other hand, the Rebels pursuing them have the backing and resources of the National Army - professionally trained soldiers capable of carrying out General Wang's every command. And the Rebels are fueled by generations of mistreatment, poverty, neglect and suffering. They have a vast network of supporters, spanning from the lumberjacks of the Northern Woodlands, to the masses in Doriath, to the fishermen in the Southern Marshes.

Taeyong knows that any chance of them escaping out of the kingdom is nigh impossible. But as he looks over at Jieun and Mark, at the grim set of their jaws and the determined glint in their eyes, he knows that they _will_ make it, or they'd die trying.

Jieun doesn’t waste much energy mourning King Donghae’s death. Given that the relationship between the two was always strained (practically a pin-drop away from snapping at any particular moment), Taeyong can't say he's wholly surprised. She wipes away the few tears that trickle down her face, pats her nose dry, and beckons them to move on. If anything, her yearning vigor to escape alive seems even more renewed in the face of his death.

  
  


Mark, on the other hand, sobs for longer. His tears drip down his cheeks and splash soundlessly onto the dirt below. As they trudge down the road, the usual serenity of early dusk is pierced by his cries. Eventually, they become occasional sniffles, but it’s heartbreaking nonetheless. Taeyong and Jieun can do nothing but offer meager solace toward their younger brother, giving him a steady hand to clutch onto and a warm, understanding hug.

  
  


Taeyong doesn’t cry, though it’s close.  The tears well in his eyes, and the world around him blurs into amorphous blobs, but they never fall. Wryly, he wonders what that means. He knows that King Donghae was far from the ideal father all children yearn for. He was conspicuously absent for most of the three royal heirs' lives, although it was largely understandable due to the overwhelming tasks of a king. He was neither gentle nor harsh with them either, preferring to be aloof and distant in their upbringing. Taeyong's scant memories of his father are proof of that. He was an uncaring king, woefully ignorant of his subjects' plights and needs. He was prone to sudden bouts of raging anger that only became more frequent after Queen Taeyeon's death - although his fits were now interspersed with spells of despair as well.

But he was still their father. He was still the man who dined with them at every meal, who taught them the precise intricacies of court politics, who cared for each of them in his own little ways. Taeyong recalls the precious few memories of his father. A pair of warm hands on his cheeks. A glimpse of a smile and dancing eyes full of laughter. A large palm resting gently on Taeyong’s shoulders, offering comfort and silent support, as the royal family from Strathclyde approach on their gaudy procession of horses and banners. A wan smile - filled with grief and mourning, but also genuine and welcoming - offered as a tentative olive branch in the late queen’s room. The companionable silence of the father-son duo, one's quill scratching rhythmically on parchment, and the other immersed in the riveting pages of a book.

  
  


If only Taeyong knew that their time together would be so short.

In the fading light of the sun, everything seems to be tinted with blood, doused with crimson like his father’s remains. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tysm lovelies for reading（ ＾＾）人（＾＾ ）
> 
> \-- -- -- --  
> factsheet for anyone confused: https://tinyurl.com/heavensweptfactsheet  
> \-- -- -- --
> 
> unrelated to the fic but i need to rant so:  
> 1) NCT DREAM COMEBACK WAS ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS!!!!! RIDIN WAS THE *SHIT* AND NO ONE CAN TELL ME OTHERWISE. jaemin? center? blue hair? renjun voice? haechan ace? chenle black hair + rap? jeno being a sexy mf rapper? park jisung and his low as *fuck* voice? i'm d e a d.
> 
> 2) i'm so emo suho's going to enlist ಠ╭╮ಠ exo's gonna only have 5 members for a few months and i just can't handle this and our leader's going to be gone... i'm gonna miss his old man jokes TT^TT

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! leave a kudos or comment on your way out!! constructive criticism is appreciated :))


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